Between Sheets
by CookiesAndStorms
Summary: Remus learns that heaven can be found in a cheap hotel room. One shot, based loosely on the song  Between Sheets  by Imogen Heap. Rating is because I'm a little paranoid.


**Just a one shot. Set in the Deathly Hallows, before Teddy. Roughly inspired by the Imogen Heap song, Between Sheets, which I suggest you listen too whilst reading. One of my favourites at the moment, and it seemed the right one to use for a Lupin/Tonks fic. My favourite Harry Potter pairing, by far, and I'm still a little upset that J K Rowling (who owns all the characters mentioned, I'm just messing with them) killed them off. Rated M because I'm a little paranoid. Enjoy, review, etc. I really hope you do, because it's now nearly one in the morning and I've been working on this for nearly three hours. I'll go catch some Z's. Lots of love, Soph. xxx**

She was asleep; his Aphrodite in crumpled white hotel linen, caught soft in slumber. Her limbs were ivory in the slight light filtering through the layered gauze and stripy brown cotton that had scratched his fingertips when he had drawn it hours and eons before. Fundamentally, as well as breaking one curtain rail, the plastic soap hanger in the bathroom and narrowly avoiding a fractured arm this week, Nymphadora Tonks had unravelled any sense of perspective he had retained in matters of time. Losing himself in her and resurfacing either days or seconds later occurred frequently, and yet he couldn't bring himself to care. In fact, if anything, he craved her; yearned to fall into the comfortable familiarity of the feelings she brought him. So familiar; yet every time still fresh enough to catch him off guard and steal his breath and make him stumble over words like she did with furniture and thin air, to cause his brain to fog up to the point where he completely forgot the world apart from her.

He said it was inconvenient. She said it was cute.

He chuckled softly, and she stirred a little. With a soft, kitten-like noise, one cream hand shifted from the pillow to rest on his chest, her fingertips warming him in a way even the finest duvet never would. Her breath fell back to a rhythm; lost to dreams against a soft pillow, hair (dark today, mussed curls of melted bitter chocolate) fanning out behind it like a woven tapestry of velvet darkness. Touchable velvet darkness that he was allowed to twist his fingers in, kiss with chapped and soft lips alike, to tangle and smooth out at will.

The noise of a car passed by the window as if in surround-sound; the headlights danced across the ceiling and landed for a sweet second on the pretty face settled on the pillow next to him. Her eyes were closed, the dark curves of lashes stroking the sensitive lilac that rested under it, the single biscuit-crumb freckle that graced the edge of it visible even in the low light. He could feel the breaths that slid from her parted carmine lips against his arm; it was breath that always tasted of toast and coffee, no matter whether she'd actually had any. Her mouth did not follow suit; there than the very faintest strawberry and blackcurrant, a quick kick of a sweet spice akin to cinnamon and the taste of a summer meadow, there was the far more preferable taste of her own, which he could try and describe a thousand different ways and still had not found anything that quite fit, other than it was bliss and he could live on it forever. He ran his fingers absently over her soft mouth- her tender lips shifted forwards under his touch to press a butterfly-soft kiss to the roughness of his hand. Every little imperfection was on show tonight, including the strange splodge of a birthmark in the area of marble skin behind her ear that could not be classified as either neck or jaw.

She hated it, said it looked like `a permanent coffee stain`; he told her he loved it, pressed the softest kiss he could there and felt her smile against his shoulder.

It was partly the honesty she had presented him within the various epochs they had lavished on this feeling, and its cause, that made it so intimate. She showed the world a million faces, a hundred thousand colours that blurred into a beautiful watercolour glow; from Parisian rose to Chartreuse to Ultramarine and back again in a whirl so fast he used to be half surprised she didn't get head rush from the sheer scale of it. But here, in this hotel room where there was nothing but a mandatory copy of the King James Bible and instant coffee and cheap biscuits that tasted like cardboard, she was, for once, her true self. It did, in a way, make him love her more, to the point where he was half sure that his heart would pop from the sheer amount of emotion the poor organ had to hold. She had, once, in sleepy smile and ink stained glory in the library at Grimmauld place at almost four in the morning confided in him the truth behind her myriad of different masks used to fool whoever happened to be watching. It was before the ecstasy of the first kiss in that same library with a green and blue dress, a storm outside and a red chaise longue made of horrible fabric that seemed to be indented to make sitting on it physically painful. Then again, this was Grimmauld place.

He had replied that he had tried to picture it; she apologised for it probably being less than he expected.

She found herself on the end of a stern whisper that his imagination didn't compare with her reality. He kissed her cheek and accidently stamped her hand rather than the book cover.

It was flawed of course; he could list each one that had been pointed out to him by her own hand at some point or another. Doing so would be a waste of time, time that could be spent caressing each, because rather than tainting the beauty that seemed to have painted itself across her face, they heightened it.

He often stunned himself by doing the same, in return for her honesty. He knew how she struggled to trust- it meant a lot she tried to place as much as she could of her crystal heart in his hands, knowing that he could let her slide through his fingers and smash on the floor. Emotions had always been his problem; shying away from anything overpowering had become so second nature he'd spent weeks and months in numbness when he was alone. Before she'd stumbled into his classroom in a blue roll neck and a thick maroon cardigan and black jeans that were tight in all the right places, and had pulled away all the subterfuge he did daily. Here, there was no hiding behind a plastic, prefabricated smile to please Molly and Harry and do all that was expected of him, because here all she expected was him in his entirety. Instead, he'd try and feel even the painful emotions, letting them cut him open so she could carefully untangle the knots and suture the wounds he didn't even know were there before, because he'd taken so much anaesthetic. She was always so, so sensitive even when admitting she saw the wolf in his eyes. He'd apologised, and her fingers had rushed to his lips, and she'd shocked him still, quietly confessing she… liked it. When the potion had failed; that god awful night filled with familiar pain that he'd hoped never to go back to, when he was locked in the basement to protect the inhabitants of Grimmauld place, she had taken such a risk he almost wanted to berate her for it, by gently creeping into the room and running those tender fingers over his torso, curling up next to him, and sedating him with soothing whispers and gentle kisses. It was the night he realised the wolf could be tamed, and that she had done so, the night he found a mate. The night he realised he couldn't hurt her no matter what state he was in.

She's slept beside him when he was at his most volatile. He curled in her lap and gently pawed her leg in comfort. There had been far fewer injuries than he usually sustained that night, and she'd quieted his scream when transferring back with her lips. Waltzing rays of virginal sunlight sifted in through the badly-boarded windows, and it hit her hair as she chased the pain away from him with hands that ran impossibly gently over aching bones, and tender kisses to heal his tattered emotional state. Victory was certainly hers; he could barely remember when he'd felt so contented before that night, and the quaint flask of tea she'd brought down with her was much appreciated.

She healed his wounds and never let him run himself too ragged; he held her tight and kissed away the insecurities littering her skin, hidden so adequately from the rest of the world.

It was rapture. It was beatitude. It was love, molten, burning love that compelled him and held him like a spider web.

"Remus?" he looked down at her soft murmur of his name. He could swear it didn't sound as good of the lips of anyone else. Eyes darker than her hair, flecked with a whisky-and-rum colour that made him want her more, because she was his liquor. She'd half-sat up; hair gloriously spread around her face in complete disarray, sheet still clinging to her skin, but then flopped back, letting herself relax against the thick pillow.

"Yes, sweetheart?" he said, allowing himself to lie next to her properly. Hip rose to meet the familiarity of his palm almost immediately, and he felt her calf resting again his thigh; hand on his chest as his reached to push back a strand of hair.

"I had the most beautiful dream that I married you." She said, punctuating the sentence with a yawn. She was still exhausted; it was the kind of innocent, childlike voice she hated using, but forgot about when she was too tired to care. He loved it.

"You did, love." He whispered, feeling the lethargy hit him. The one thing she did chide him on was not getting enough sleep; Christ knew he needed more, and so did his personal angel.

"Oh good." She said, voice fading as the Sandman claimed her again. He would probably tumble after her in a minute. "It would really suck if I was just dreaming." He chuckled and ran his fingertips across her waist, making her shiver. "I love you." The mutter was softer than he'd ever heard her voice; wonder overtook him for a second, before his lips found her forehead. He managed to breathe the words against the still slightly sheened brow, sparkling like dew drops.

"I love you too, angel."

And he knew they'd shower together in the morning and he'd brush out her hair because she was far too rough with it, and they'd try and prolong the inevitable end to their time in their little bubble of intimacy, because they both needed the deep, fathomless intimacy they found in various inns, B&B's and Muggle hotels to get through the testing weeks of mission and darkness and evil. It was being washed clean again after being so tainted by it all. It couldn't last forever; there were things to do, people to see, places to go, bad guys to dispose of. She'd get caught chasing the blinding light of it all, and he'd be pressured into doing things he didn't want to. They'd be separated by a thousand bodies and death eaters and friends with good intentions; it never was just distance. Her eyes would change, from the whisky and rum sweetness of the various hotel beds, covering herself away again, layer upon layer of protection lavishing her delicate-flower insides. The high definition of his emotions would take a backseat to everything else again; he'd feel like they weren't his own.

Their eyes would meet over the wooden monster of a table that sat in the cool kitchen at the headquarters, and he knew that for a long moment they'd both just sit and stare, her probably with a piece of toast half-way to her mouth, him with his fingers wrapped around a coffee mug. Then a smile would upturn her lips, and he'd reach over and stroke the back of her hand, making her shiver. They'd both finish eating in comfortable silence, and slip up to the library, sit and talk and listen. Arrangements would be made to find a hotel somewhere, anywhere. She'd tell some elaborate story to anyone who asked. He'd pack his suitcase and leave it by the door.

They'd find the hotel, after many, many roundabouts and service stations, and the first thing he'd do was go for the curtains, while she'd slide into the bathroom and undo all of her appearance alterations. He'd catch her as she came back out, herself again, and pin her to the door, kissing her like she was his last lifeline, because she was. Holding the key to his emotions and she'd unlock them when her hand moved to his neck, toying with the hair touching the base of it. He'd eventually, regretfully, pull away, and she'd look up at him, slightly dazed, and he knew he looked the same, but he didn't care. Because it was Tonks. Because she was the one looking at him like she'd never seen anyone more perfect. Because she was his, even only completely in various semi-shabby cheap hotel rooms.

She'd laugh, and kiss him again, reach for the bottom of his shirt. He'd tease her about being impatient, and she'd reply that she was, that they should really do this more often. He'd quietly agree, and let her trace his scars with softly silken fingertips, then her lips and she'd make him shudder when her tongue began to tease each raised scar. He'd pull her up after a while, kiss her again and let her jump up, hooking her legs around his hips as his tongue duelled with hers. She'd let him win, and he'd walk them to the bed, laying her down and helping her out of her clothes. She'd return the favour, and then there'd be nothing but hour after hour of touch and sound and taste, feeling and knowing and love. The earth would move. The stars would appear on the ceiling, where the white paint had started to peel away like a second skin. There was nothing but her and him and sanctuary, and it was so close to perfect he couldn't quite comprehend it.

It would end eventually, of course. It could only be three days at the most; it was all they could spare between protecting and attacking, between the death and the maiming so bad her eyes would tear up and she'd say she wished they were gone as not to suffer that, between various missions and research points and check boxes that needed to be ticked and crossed off before they could let go.

It was his signal fire and hers too. He'd get through whatever life threw at him, for this. To curl up with his wife and be allowed to make her feel; to allow her to make him feel. To love her, pure and simple.

He kissed her forehead again and closed his eyes, hearing the kitten meow again as she shuffled closer, her hair falling against his shoulder. They had tomorrow morning, and the here and now was quite nice already. Curled in a soft hotel bed with his wife. His lovely, imperfect goddess of a wife, and the warm, melting, breakable heart she'd gifted him, in place of the slightly tattered, temperamental scarred red muscle that now belonged to her. Right now, she was holding as gently as he was holding hers, the fragility of each apparent, and every vulnerability both protected and drawn to its best light. Right now, she was lost to slumber, and he should join her. Right now, he couldn't imagine anything more perfect than being between crumpled up hotel sheets with a pure and simple, exposed Nymphadora Lupin, nee Tonks, who changed her hair to colours that would make a rainbow cringe just to irritate her mentor and hated her first name and danced in thunderstorms simply because it made her feel happy to be alive. Right now, he was just Remus Lupin, who had read too many books and drank Earl Grey like it was going out of fashion and had played an Elvis record on a gramophone because he wanted to show her how he felt, for once; the action which had kick-started all this. All this beauty, this perfection, this still growing, rose-bud covered, thorn punctured love that he would pay anything to keep alight. It was his flickering flame; a mere matchstick and yet at the same time a raging inferno. Right now, he was letting it consume him, and burning quite pleasantly. Right now…. Right n…rig…

"I love you too, Nymphadora Lupin." He whispered, feeling the veil of sleep settle over him, gauze windowing his gaze on the girl beside him. His sweet girl. His beautiful lover. His wonderful, wonderful wife. "So much."


End file.
